


My Point Is

by WaldosAkimbo



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Children, Drinking, M/M, Picnic Baskets, discussion of antichrists and such, drunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:01:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24562777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaldosAkimbo/pseuds/WaldosAkimbo
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley are up in their cottage when Crowley gets upset about baskets, apparently.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 48





	My Point Is

**Author's Note:**

> Just the very first little part popped into my head and I figured a little drabble was in order. Nothing more serious beyond that, really.
> 
> Only rated it because the world "vulva" pops up and they're drunk.

“My _point_ is!”

Aziraphale groaned and watched Crowley’s glass fill too fast, too much, the _glug-glug_ of the bottle draining out until it nearly splashed over his fingers and he snapped to put the bottle down on the table, reserving one more glass for himself and sparing Crowley the embarrassment of spilling good wine down the front of his shirt.

“If you say ‘dolphins’ again,” Aziraphale muttered, low and grumbly.

“Wot?”

“ _Dolphins_ ,” Aziraphale repeated, deliberate and long and _loud_.

“Who said anythin’ about…?” Crowley blinked too long and swayed towards the left, then the right. “About that! ‘z not my point. What’s my point?”

“ _I_ don’t know.”

Really, after their little failed picnic – rained out, of course – they’d retreated back inside their cottage for a late afternoon cuddle, which turned into an evening of drinking together while a fire burned in a very controlled and very harassed fireplace and the rain drummed on the windows.

It was the picnic basket that set if off, initially. Well, no, before that, it had been the kissing. Okay, no, before _that_ , the two of them were still outside, wandering the stony path of the area, and stepped aside for a family who were running on ahead. No doubt their hurry was to find their little vacation spot over in the populated side of the hills after having a brief visit at the pebble beach. One of the boys, no more than five, tripped, and Crowley caught him on instinct, righting him, kneeling and checking for a scrape. He told the boy he was alright, and he was a proper little terror, even lightly pinching his cheeks, before he stood and assured the parents that their little Gregor was fine, no harm done, and then slid back in next to Aziraphale without further comment.

Without further comment, _that’s_ what led to the kissing, because they stopped at the little picket gate outside their cottage and Crowley suddenly turned and caught Aziraphale’s mouth just as the rain was coming down hard, ready to soak them if Aziraphale didn’t instinctively raise an invisible wing over their heads.

“What’s all this?” Aziraphale asked, a touch breathless at the display.

“Come inside, Angel,” Crowley answered with some strange desperation.

And then, yes. They’d set the picnic basket down on the table and Crowley had stared at it far too long, like he was about to tip himself inside it and fall for a very long time. Aziraphale tugged him to his lap instead, returning to what they started at the gate, until it petered out with the help of the rain, like it washed away the desire and made room for contemplation.

Then the drinking.

And then…this.

“My point is… _oh!_ ”

Aziraphale had only just managed to shove himself up from his chair, his rump pointed out towards Crowley. All he was trying to do was find his feet beneath him, so he could stand proper. It was definitely not an excuse to shove his bum in Crowley’s face. Didn’t stop the demon from staring and biting his bottom lip in. Didn’t stop Aziraphale either, who wandered back over to the table to get what was left out of their picnic basket. There was a very fine comfit duck he wanted yet to eat, and it was just going to waste in there.

“Baskets!”

“Your point is baskets?” Aziraphale asked, wobbling from chair to table to picnic basket to cupboard for a plate, back to table, duck found! And following the line back to the chair once more. Crowley’s eyes were as wobbly as Aziraphale’s journey, but at least he watched him through all of it. “What about them?”

“I delivered the antichrist,” he answered.

Aziraphale sat. Heavily. Not because of what Crowley said but because the chair was low and gravity was great and the two conspired together. Then he sat _heavier_ really _because_ of what Crowley said.

“You…we know. _I_ know you have.”

“Right,” Crowley said.

“Right,” Aziraphale repeated, looking around to try and find Crowley’s dastardly _point_ he was so worked up on. “And…baskets?”

“It’s not _just_ baskets, your beautiful bastard.”

Aziraphale frowned, setting the plate to rest on his tummy, and pouted until he managed to pick up one of the drummies and tear off a piece of meat. Still quite good, actually. Could go with a round in the oven. Reheat it. But that seemed…dangerous? In their current condition.

“You said it was baskets,” Aziraphale answered.

“It is.” Crowley stared into his cup this time, his nose close to dipping into the surface of wine. Then he pulled his chin back up with much effort and hooked his eyebrows together over the rims of his sunglasses. “It isn’t.”

“Well which is it.”

“It’s more than.”

“More than what?”

“More than baskets!”

“ _Crowley_. I’m much too…I’m not… _drunk_ , Crowley.”

“I am, if I’m honest,” Crowley answered, sounding strangely miserable as he looked into his glass a second time. Third time. Fifth time?

He was slipping fast into a _mood_ that could only be tempered, perhaps, by sunshine or sleep or a certain angel hoisting him out of his pit of misery, if he just knew how to get him off this strange track his mind had taken him on. It was holding him hostage. And it was being very unfair because Aziraphale just did _not_ get it.

He had to put away the plate. He just _got_ the plate and now he had to put it away. Crowley should make up his mind and drive on to the bloody _point_. And as Aziraphale lifted the plate off the shelf of his stomach, he was interrupted by Crowley’s quiet broken little sigh.

That just about did it.

With a huff. With a _huff_ , Aziraphale got back up – ass behind him this time, thank you – and dropped a little too heavily to his knees. Banged ‘em quite badly, actually, and he winced before he remembered he didn’t need to feel pain about it and suddenly didn’t. The plate was saved, because of course it was, and waited on his armrest for his triumphant return.

“Aziraphale!”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale answered stubbornly, waving Crowley’s delayed hysterics over him falling. He blinked, which was more just closing his eyes for a very long time before he opened them again, and took Crowley’s hands. “What’s about the baskets, dear?”

“Bas—”

“Yes. And delivering. Just. _Tell_ me.”

There was something funny about Crowley’s face then. Not entirely _ha ha_ funny, but just the worried little wrinkle of his brows. The purse of his lips. His still-yet-rain-damp hair. His golden eyes. His nose. His…Aziraphale was just falling in love with each piece at a time and then, yes, the whole of it, and how Crowley sat, tense yet slumped, smiling yet miserable, drunk yet painfully sober about…something.

“I. Delivered. The antichrist,” Crowley said slowly, like he was reading a text aloud and had to translate the language. “And. We raised…well, the wrong boy. But we raised him. We…I loved it. I loved…love. I love babies. And kids. And…and the raising…little hellions.” He suddenly _got something in his eye_ and had dash it away quickly. “Tyrants. Awful.” A sniffle. “Squishy little faces.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, the name used as a blanket, a net to pull Crowley back to him. Same as his hands pulled Crowley to him. “Do you want kids?”

“What?” His face darkened and he tried to pull away. Maybe a still ruddy from the almost-definitely-not-but-definitely-crying he started just then. “No. No! We can’t….”

Aziraphale smiled, a little too big, his cheeks bubbling up from the feeling bubbling up in the bubbling-up parts of his tummy. His heart. His soul.

“Well we can’t!”

“Not with that attitude.”

“Ah..ch…ng…zz… _Angel_!”

“Crowley.”

“We _can’t_.” He put his hand on his chest. “Demon.” Then on Aziraphale’s. “Angel. Not gonna. Y’know.”

“Well, I’ve seen you with the prettiest vulva in the world, my dear. So that’s not such an issue. If you wanted…to _deliver_. Or I could give it a go!”

Somehow, Crowley’s face went even pinker and he was scowling for some silly reason.

“I think it’d be marvelous!”

He sat back and put his hands on his stomach – bubbling up, remember, so happy and bubbly – and then got an even better idea and quickly reached forward and grabbed Crowley’s hands, placing them gently on Aziraphale’s stomach.

Crowley’s eyes got big and bold. The pupils wide. The gold irises glowing. He looked more like a cat focused in on something than a snake and Aziraphale couldn’t help a little quiet giggle at that, leaning forward and pecking Crowley’s nose. It made him go all cross-eyed, poor bugger, before he scrunched said nose and pulled back a little and, truly, it just made Aziraphale giggle more.

So, he kissed him. As was apt to do. He had liked that part, by the fence. And in the kitchen. And this time, it didn’t feel like it was a necessary barrier to what was to come, it felt like a declaration of something. It felt like a smile and like warmth and even sunshine, though the rain was very pleasant outside. Made it feel like a perfectly good excuse to be cozy. To work off the black blazer, the thin buttons of a vest. To unfasten zippers, to lick at collarbones, to hold someone’s cheek only to turn and press their palm with another kiss, bite at a wrist, gasp as layer upon layer was shed away. Even in the moment of sudden sneezing sobriety – that was Aziraphale, he didn’t mean to, but it happened, so Crowley followed after – they just took a moment to pause and then laughed together. The laughter helped. It tickled against each other’s lips and they spent their time with breathless wonder on that couch, on the floor, one time on the stairs, and finally their bedroom. Crowley’s bedroom. No, no. No, their bedroom.

Because? Baskets.


End file.
